“Think I’ve waited fifty year fer that gold, t’ be robbed of it now? They ain’t no gov’ment on earth can step in an’ take what’s mine! I’ll blow ’em to hell first! I’ll—”
As once before, when he thought his gold was threatened, Old Jess ran the full gamut of anathema. Nevada fled from the sound of his cracked voice shrieking maniacal threats and maledictions. He shook his fist under Rawley’s nose and stamped his feet and raved. Young Jess was over-ridden, silenced by the old man’s insane outburst.
As once before, Peter said absolutely nothing until Old Jess had reached the zenith of his rage. Then he rose deliberately and without excitement, took the old man by the collar and headed him toward the door.
“Go and cool off,” he advised dispassionately. “You old vulture, you can’t scream any louder than the Eagle. You, too, Jess,” he added, turning harshly upon his half-brother. “You’re a pretty good man when it comes to swinging a single-jack, but you’re a damn poor hand at thinking! This thing is away beyond your depth. You can’t holler the government down. Get out!”
Young Jess blustered and threatened still, flailing his fists and mouthing oaths.
“That’s about all from you,” grated Rawley, stung to action by some vile threat against the government.
“Is, hey?” Young Jess advanced upon him.
Then Rawley went for him, the blue eyes of the Kings gone black with fury. The fight, if it could be called that, was short and undramatic. No tables were overturned, no glass was shattered. Young Jess aimed a sledge blow at Rawley, got one on the jaw that spun him so that he faced the other way, and Rawley forthwith kicked him off the porch. Young Jess rooted gravel, looked over his shoulder and saw Rawley coming at him again, and started off on all fours. When he regained his feet he went away, blathering blasphemy. He was going for his gun,—so he said.
Peter stood looking after Young Jess, his brows pulled together. A slim figure slipped past him and went straight to Rawley, who was pulling at his tie, which had gone crooked. She was pale, breathless with the fear that looked out of her big eyes.
“Oh, you must go—now,” she breathed, clasping her two hands around his arm. “You think he’s just like any other bully, all bluster. He’ll kill you, just as sure as you stand here. Grandfather, too. Uncle Jess will shoot you in the back—oh, anyway! He’s the worst of the Indian blood; once you rouse him, there’s nothing he’ll stop at! Get him away, Uncle Peter! It isn’t brave, to stay and be killed. It’s the worst kind of cowardice; the kind that is afraid to show itself. Uncle Peter!”